


Look to the Stars

by ineffablynerdy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, M/M, Other, i think i started crying writing this, this is the first thing ive finished in forever, when it goes down listen to no place in heaven by mika
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-20 12:22:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20675330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablynerdy/pseuds/ineffablynerdy
Summary: Aziraphale notices Crowley acting slightly off since the Notpocaplyse and tries to do something nice. It backfires.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first completed work in years. I'm so glad it was GO related. I could very well be convinced to make a part two, if you try hard. Make an effort.

"Angel, what's all this?" Crowley's voice is barely a whisper as he looks about the room, feeling himself dizzy from the multitudes of dots surrounding them. Aziraphale grins, busying himself by smoothing the wrinkles from a map. It's old, discolored and Crowley wonders, for a moment, how he hadn't ever come across it all the times he's explored the bookshop. There had been many times; while Aziraphale muttered at a potential customer, when looking for a decent lounge, eavesdropping (in the general sense), that Crowley had snooped the bookshelves, and he had never seen _maps_. 

"You've been puttering about for weeks, talking about stars." the angel explains, a sly twitch of his lip all but giving him away. Crowley doesn't see. He's far too enamored with the different constellations around him. Somewhere in the furthest reaches of his mind, there's a whisper. A nagging ache that begs for him to acknowledge it. His shoulder blades itch, he's uncomfortable; it's one thing to stare at the stars from his flat, but _this_...

"What are you talking about?" Crowley reaches out with lithe fingers, tracing over a small bundle of stars hanging in the air. "_Cepheus_," he breathes and Aziraphale catches over his shoulder. Alpha Cephei twinkles brightly against Crowley's skin. Aziraphale wonders at the way the light plays at sharp cheekbones.

  
"That." Aziraphale answers, watching each of Crowley's moves intently. He'd always had a knack for watching Crowley; the slight way his pupils dilated when he was intrigued, a perceptive nostril flare when the demon would rant, the not-exactly-subtle way his ears would pink when Aziraphale was caught.

  
"Cepheus, Gienah, Unukalhai. You've been repeating the names of stars, my dear." Crowley doesn't answer, and Aziraphale doesn't expect him to. The dark room is filled edge to edge with twinkling lights and Crowley's hardly seen a handful. From the silence, Aziraphale hears Crowley's gasp like a beacon and there's a fondness in his chest that blooms a bit more, chuckling under his breath.

  
Crowley's removed his sunglasses by now, taking in every bit of this wondrous gift the angel had given him. He takes a stride, and then two, hardly masking his excitement as he points just a few inches above his head and locks his luminescent eyes on Aziraphale.

  
"This is Lyra!" Crowley explains, and if they'd needed to breathe, well he's forgotten. "It's associated with Orpheus and discovered in the 2nd century. Oh, wonderful century that was; the Greeks had just invented the spirit sails and Ptolemy was making _such_ strides in his works." The demon ducks again, finding another array to focus on. Little bits of history and trivia and names fill the empty spaces in the room with a warmth, a feeling Aziraphale was more than familiar with. He feels his shoulders relax, unaware he had been so anxious until his project was eagerly accepted and watches Crowley in an environment the angel had only seen once before. Very long ago.

* * *

_It's warm, it's bright, he feels safe and loved and he isn't sure how he knows what love is, he just does. _  
_"Welcome to Creation." a proper voice greets him and sky blue eyes finally fall on the two beings before him. One's blocky, built to serve, with a dignified air about him. He seems important and his violet eyes radiate a bitterness deep within. The other tips his lips upward, something that would be called a smile, and a breeze flitters at his long red hair. He feels like happiness._

_"You're always so prim," the second one says and reaches out to tap the forehead of their most newest angel. His golden eyes radiate with love, with fascination, with an eagerness, an anticipation of everything to come. "Don't mind him, alright? Listen to me." a soft hiss in his ears, and the angel finds himself nodding, not daring to question the archangels before him, their wings towering well over their heads in an impressive array of lights and shadows._

_"Aziraphale."_

* * *

  
"Angel!" Aziraphale jolts, turning his attention to Crowley, who seems more than a little perturbed he hadn't been listened to. He's moved, again, to a different part of the room, all but climbed halfway up a shelf to properly inspect a nebulae close to the ceiling. "This one's wrong."

  
Aziraphale's brow furrows curiously, and he's already looking over his maps again, the charts, the scriptures and text books. He'd worked so hard to make sure everything was perfect, there's no way he could have been wrong, everything was absolutely _right_.

  
"That's ridiculous, my dear," Aziraphale tries, flipping pages back and forth. He hears Crowley scramble down to the floor, hears his boots against the wood. "It couldn't be wrong, _I_ couldn't be-" Crowley's beside him now, leaning close to press the cover shut on Aziraphale's research, chin cocked just so over the angel's shoulder.

"Minkowski 2-9," Crowley breathes, eyes stuck to the corner of the room. If he notices Aziraphale squirm, notices the way his nose roses or how he sucks in a stuttering air, Crowley says nothing. He focuses on the stars. "It's shaped like a butterfly, angel. You've got it sideways."

  
With a slight huff, Aziraphale rights himself a bit, trying to ignore his metaphorical feathers from ruffling. And his real ones. Why did Crowley always have to know better?

* * *

_A sound falls from his lips, sudden and bubbly and Raphael beams, the soft spots on the bridge of his nose more prominent than ever._

  
_"You've laughed!" he croons, warm hands reaching out to cup Aziraphale's jaw. "This is wonderful, it's so beautiful! Do it again!" And the angel does. It's hard not to, when an archangel looks so excited and enamored and-_

  
_"Doesn't it look a bit silly like that?" Aziraphale asks, looking back to the luminous vapors floating just in front of them. Tiny balls of gas called _stars_ circle around and around, their tiny burn marks already leaving more soft spots on Raphael's hands. The corkscrew shape twists and turns and the archangel, finally dropping his hands, hums in thought._

  
_"What do you think, then, angel?" It's a term that's usually sneered at him, a new creation, not like the ones that had been before him. The Principalities, the Virtues, the Seraphim. But when Raphael says it, when Raphael calls him 'angel'...Aziraphale turns his body, caught between Raphael's arms, two of his half-dozen large wings encompassing them both more._

  
_"I think.." he starts, and reaches out, only to pull back entirely too soon. The nebula burns his fingertips, leaves them pink and tender. Angel's aren't meant to touch the stars._

  
_Before he can speak, Raphael's offered his own hands, fingers threading between Aziraphale's. The hurt is replaced with just a warmth and they both reach out, turning the helix on it's side._

* * *

"That is exactly how every book says to position it, Crowley." Aziraphale mutters, wracking his brain. Everything he remembers distinctly says _helical._ He isn't sure which one of them does it -perhaps it's the both of them- but M2-9 turns over to its side, very closely resembling the bow tie around Aziraphale's neck, just as Crowley said. Only barely miffed, there's a part of Aziraphale that agrees with the demon looming over him; it looks far better and much more part of the heavens around it like this. It _belongs_.

  
"_Much better_," Crowley's hiss sounds pleased and he moves away from Aziraphale, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. There's small burns on his fingers, now, despite the obvious lack of heat from the optical spectacle he reveled in. And they don't exactly_ hurt_, but...

  
The angel hummed behind him. "Though I think if Raphael knew we were toying with his nebula, he might be a bit peevish."

* * *

_Aziraphale finds himself searching Heaven. An announcement rang out, into each and every angel's head, and _Humanity_ is to be born soon. God's finally ready, Her Great Plan set to unravel in the Very Soon future. And Aziraphale gets to be part of it._

  
_The instant Raphael is in his sight, Aziraphale can't stop smiling. The jeers, the contemptuous smiles, they fade into nothing, because Raphael has his arms around him and they're laughing and joyous and there's a something Not Quite in their cores._

  
_"The Garden of Eden!" Raphael exclaims, for he's seen the stage for this Garden, a vast, green expanse more beautiful than most things that existed anywhere. Most. "Next you'll tell me you've been app_ _ointed to Principality!" he teases at Aziraphale and the angel waves him off._

  
_"Don't rush," he threads his fingers through the ends of Raphael's long hair, a contented look coming to rest on his features, in spite of the _Don't Touch Must Touch_ fight warring in his mind. "Show me your stars, again. Before I'm assigned." Aziraphale all but pleads. Raphael hardly wastes a single second, only to press his cheek against the angel's. His voice is feather soft as he whispers into Aziraphale's ear._

  
_"Look above, dear angel, for no distance shall separate Heaven and Earth."_

* * *

Crowley stills and silence envelops the room again. There's no more trivia, no more excitement or wonder. But Aziraphale feels something unmistakable.

_Love._

  
It's quick, almost shy, dipping in and out of existence in small waves. In between the waves, however, there's another emotion. One that brings just as many tears to Aziraphale's eyes with just as much force.

  
He's never truly felt Hatred before.

  
"My dear-"

  
"Say it again."

  
His voice is different. It's not _hollow_ exactly. Distant? Perhaps. It isn't Crowley, it's not Crowley's voice, and it's still so familiar and welcoming. It feels like Home. Slightly more gravelly, only twinged with a hint of regret and-

  
"_Ssssay it again_," Crowley prompted, grasping with all his might at the whisper inside his mind that had reared its head before. There's something there, _something_, so close, and it's driving him mad. For years, centuries, _eons_, it's nagged at him, but now, now it insisted upon itself, as if it were clawing back at everything keeping it hidden away.

* * *

_Fire, pain, it sears into his mind and Raphael cries out._

  
_"Why? Why are you doing this? What have I done to forsake Her?"_

  
_Metatron's blank expression betrays nothing as he announces again, voice booming through the entirety of celestials._

  
_"Archangel Raphael, you are cast from Heaven."_

* * *

Aziraphale sputters softly, not entirely sure what's come over his companion.

  
"I think if Raphael-"

  
"_Ssstop_."

  
Aziraphale does.

* * *

_Michael, Uriel, Gabriel...They stood, eyes turned away, as witness to Metatron's words, shame radiating in a typhoon from them. Two angels, the names Raphael couldn't say, held him back, wings and hands bound by prayer and more than the small miracle. A flaming sword faced Raphael, but he couldn't bring himself to look into those sky blue eyes. He couldn't, they were too familiar...Another pair had only just left for Earth._

  
_"You have gone against Her, the Creator, and you will be stripped of your Miracle."_

  
_The sword raises, and Raphael flinches, begging and pleading with every bit of his Being, to Her._

  
_His wings begin to burn._

  
_"I _will_ find my Way," Raphael assures, sounding much more confidant than he felt. His shoulder blades scream and creamy white begins to darken. "Even if I have to _crawl_."_

* * *

There's a hiccup pulled from Crowley's throat, a broken sob as he curls in on himself. He isn't sure when the floor met his knees, isn't sure when the itch had come back, more insistent than ever. In the furthest part of his mind, he thinks he hears something, a real voice, but it doesn't matter. Not now. Not when-

* * *

"_Crawley." It sounds like a joke, the first time he hears it. Beelzebub doesn't bother to hide their snicker, their mirth. They ponder to themselves, why Hell is suddenly so popular with archangels. "Get up there and make some trouble."_

* * *

  
Aziraphale clutches at his chest, the pain, the heartache filling every bit of his Earthly body. Crowley sits, all but a ball, on the floor and Aziraphale can't bring himself to move. He wants to; wants to wrap his arms around his friend, his best friend, wants to wipe away tears and kiss away pain. _He wants, he wants, he wants._

  
The angel takes the tiniest of steps forward, two names on his lips, and unsure of which to say. Never, in the history of Creation, had a demon ever remembered his Holy name. Never...save Lucifer himself. And that had been so very far before Aziraphale's own Naming.

  
He steels himself, reaching out with a shaky hand and just so lightly pressing against Crowley's spine, in that one place that shook any being, ethereal or otherwise, to their core.

  
"Raphael."

  
"_Well that went down like a lead balloon._"

  
The stars shudder in place and six black wings sprout from Crowley's shoulders.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was very surprised that I got so many requests to continue this. I didn't really expect to even start it lmao So I hope this is up to your expectations. Enjoy everyone - WAHOO

He remembers everything.

* * *

_ God's warm, heavenly light on his face; Her love and Her acceptance and Raphael knows he will do anything for Her.  _

_ "You are Raphael," She tells him, and he holds the name close to his heart, as dear to him as anything ever will be. "You are of Me, as I am of You. You will create, and you will destroy, in My Name, as I will for You. You are powerful, you are kind and you are deserving." Her voice is lyrical, mystical. It is everything and nothing and Raphael wonders if his own is the same. _

_ "Deserving of what?" The First Question has been asked. There's a tug in the back of Raphael's mind, curious and probing and Raphael never wants it to stop. _

_ For the first time, God answers him. _

_ "Love." _

* * *

Crowley -no,  _ Raphael _ -, he doesn't know anymore. Where the demon ends, the archangel begins, and pain spreads within them both. There has ever been once that he felt this; his Fall, when his Family had cast him away, like a broken plaything, hardly an explanation on their lips. 

He hadn't been a fan.

There's another part of Crowley -and he knows it's Crowley-, intensely aware of the fingers at his back, the voice speaking to him. Not as beautiful as God's had been, but  _ oh _ , so close. There's a weight around him, inside his body; guilt, an enticing urge, an itch to explore, create- he has no idea what the voice is saying, only that it seems to be the only thing keeping him grounded, here.

"My dear boy," Aziraphale's voice, while clear, is miles away. They aren't in the bookshop, or even Soho. London has failed to exist, Europe is a made-up word. All that exists is Aziraphale and Crowley, Raphael and the earth under him, Heaven and Hell. The stars around them have begun to fade; they hadn't been designed to last all that long, after all. An archangel hadn't made  _ these _ stars.

Aziraphale is breathless. The large wings in front of him, more of an inky blue now than they had been before, intimidate him. They remind Aziraphale of Gabriel, of Michael and Uriel, of the first time he had returned to Heaven and found Raphael still had yet to return.

* * *

_ Working for the Lord, he'd been told. Much too important to be flippantly larking about with a Principality on his first assignment. Get back to work. _

_ The angel had nodded, obediently, compliant, though chanced a gaze above him.  _

_ Raphael's favorite, Alpha Centauri, twinkled brightly at him, just as he had been told it would. A sword had been pressed into his hand, blade flaming like anything, and Aziraphale was sent back to Earth, back to the Garden; this time, he learns the names of his new wards. Adam and Eve. He nearly feels as if he's forgotten something...someone... _

* * *

It's almost as if time stops. Aziraphale still presses his fingers to Crowley's back, but he begins to feel the muscles relax against him. Six wings twitch, here and there, brushing the furthest walls of the backroom, and somehow avoiding any damage. Crowley has unbound himself, resting on his knees and staring into his hands as opposed to making himself as small as possible. 

He's Fallen. Truly and correctly and not just Unforgivable.

"Aziraphale," His voice is still gravely, still not his and is, a voice he'd long forgotten before fire and brimstone charred his throat. Crowley feels Aziraphale's fingers retreat faster than he thought possible, and it's an action that leaves Crowley feeling more alone than ever.

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, not for the first or the last time in his existence, while he turns his body. He needs to see, needs to know he hasn't been abandoned again; hasn't been exiled from the bookshop as he was from the very heart of his Mother and Savior.

Serpentine pupils remained, though yellow has turned a definite amber, a gold that Aziraphale swears is familiar, too familiar, something he has missed terribly and can't quite place. The utter ache is nearly palpable, but it isn't only Crowley now. Some part of Aziraphale aches in answer. He feels Home. He feels lost.

There's a relief in Crowley's eyes as he turns properly, wings adjusting and shrinking and curling and uncurling to fit within their confines. Aziraphale is still there, on edge and wary, but there and Crowley couldn't be more grateful.

* * *

_ He slithers against the ground, curious, intrigued as to how everything looks so different though snake eyes. Something feels off, as if he isn't meant to be here, isn't meant to feel the Earth beneath his body. Or, rather, at least not alone. He's never been entirely alone before. What was he before? He remembers Beelzebub, remembers the torment, the anguish, and nothing more. _

_ Crawley hisses into the ear of a creature he hasn't a word for. Something, a beckoning voice as light as bells, tells him. Humans. Eve. And he doesn't wonder again.  _

_ It isn't long after, and Crawley is climbing a wall, having just watched the Humans pierce a hole in Eden's wall, and take their first steps into the world.  _ Her _ world. He remembers  _ Her _ . _

_ He doesn't expect someone else to be atop the stones. Doesn't expect the soft, white linen fluttering in the breeze, matching wings anxiously fluffing and refluffing. The back of his mind tells him again; Angel,  _ enemy _ , and he tries to shake it away. He didn't rely on instinct, but rather curiosity and a bit of boredom.  _

_ Crawley concentrates, feels his serpentine body stretch and morph and he's standing beside the stranger atop the Wall of Eden. His blackened wings look ragged, worn and rather worse for wear. He speaks to the angel, unsure of where the words come from. The stranger, upon the first drops of rain to ever touch Earth, uses his wing to shroud Crawley. _

_ He isn't alone anymore. He's grateful. _

* * *

God's Love, in its proper sense, envelopes one's entire being. Aziraphale had felt it from his First moments, and every moment since; warm and confident, never once doubting his place in Her world, regardless of how the bureaucrats would have him think. His entire existence, Aziraphale knew, his exact place in God's eyes.

But this...The entirely unashamed, cheeky, unrepentant absolute love nearly knocking Aziraphale from his feet felt indistinguishable. The angel wants to shy away, Too Fast, but he's unable to pull his eyes away from Crowley. Crowley, the demon, his friend...

The Archangel Raphael.

It's a subconscious thought, as Aziraphale nervously eyes the large Archangel wings spanning above him, to divert himself as he would for Michael, or Uriel, or Gabriel. To sputter, offer some sort of explanation, why is he doing this, what is the meaning of, as if he were a child being shamed.

But the way Crowley -Raphael- looks up at him, eyes shining with restrained tears, a smile tugging at his lips, his creased brow betraying the same confusion and distress Aziraphale feels deep within him; he's laid bare and open under those golden eyes, more familiar than the breath in his lungs. The angel feels his knee buckle, and the other follows quickly after, the raw sentiment finally too much for him to bear.

_ "Angel!" _

In an instant, a shadow moves swiftly through the air and rather than falling to the floor, Aziraphale feels the unmistakable softness of angel feathers against his weight. Crowley pulls a wing back, content that Aziraphale is safe and instead, reaches out with a freckled hand to cup his jaw.

"It's a lot, isn't it?" Precisely what the archangel means, Aziraphale wouldn't venture a guess. Still, he nods, surprised to find Crowley's skin warm against his cheek. He still can't look away. It's all so familiar.

He's  _ been _ here before.

* * *

_ Aziraphale fixes his gaze on light burned freckles across Raphael's nose. He's confused, and happy, and more than a little curious, if he were honest. _

_ "A what?" he asks, and Raphael grins at him, lounging in the branches of an unnamed tree, looking far more ethereal for his own good, in the angel's opinion. _

_ "A kiss." Raphael hisses just so, the way that tickles at Aziraphale's spine. He tries the word against his lips, watches the way Raphael's body slithers closer to him, as if he were coiling in anticipation. _

* * *

It's quicker than a heartbeat, much  _ too fast _ for the angel to even consider protesting. He's pulled forward, though hardly unbalanced, and part of his mind realizes how many more freckles cover sharp cheekbones, as if the stars he had hung in the bookshop so long ago had only reappeared on Crowley.

It's a kiss that shatters everything to its core. Though, by Someone's miracle or another, the world is still perfectly intact, and no one is any the wiser as to what  _ exactly _ happens at A. Z. Fell & Co. in the middle of the night. It rips at Aziraphale's soul, an enamored angel, a bewitched Principality; a man in love. He recognizes every instance of Raphael's unresistant love for him, and only him, the decades upon centuries before Earth was ever an idea, blossomed and grown and utterly encompassing everything the archangel was.

Aziraphale weakens against dappled fingers, and can't resist thinking how  _ nice _ this is the second time around.

There's a soft sound, and neither one is sure who starts, but they're giggling and kissing and both have tears against their cheeks. Crowley pulls himself back, studying Aziraphale's sky blue eyes as though he were seeing them for the first time. That first time, when Raphael had smiled at him and given him a name.

_ Of Raphael. _

"Aziraphale. My angel."

"Oh, my dear Crowley."


End file.
